She again looked at me. I could see she was just a little doubtful of me: not scared, but not quite sure.
I grinned at her. “Baby,” I said, “you don’t have to worry about me. I know what you’re thinkin’ but you can forget it. With another dame, yes, but with you, no. I guess you would never have come here if you didn’t want some help bad… well, I want to help, an’ there won’t be a cheque comin’ in.”
When I said that, she relaxed. She said: “Make it a very small rye and a lot of ginger.”
While I was fixing the drinks, she went over and sat in the big armchair. It was one of those chairs that give to the floor. From where I was standing I could see the top of her hat and a lot of her legs. She opened the fur coat and draped it over the side of the chair.
It was chilly, so I switched on the little electric stove I used between the periods when the steam heat was off and the evenings got cold.
I came over with the drinks and gave her one of the glasses. Then, leaning against the mantelshelf, I nodded to her over the rim. “Safe landin’,” I said, and we drank.
She lay back in the armchair, holding the glass in one hand, and for a minute shut her eyes. I didn’t hurry her. I guessed she wanted to get her facts together, and I was happy enough to stand and watch her.
“I do want your help,” she said at last, looking up at me.
“All right. You’re goin’ to have it. If you’re in a jam, you don’t have to get scared. We’ll work it out together.”
“Why, Mr. Mason, are you doing this for me?”